Of Pride and Thankfulness
by Swellison
Summary: Why did Sam agree to help Dean find their dad? Missing scene/flashback from the Pilot. Sort of a Thanksgiving story.


Of Pride and Thankfulness

by Swellison

(Some dialogue by Eric Kripke)

"You're not hearing me, Sammy. Dad's missing." Somehow, Sam wasn't really surprised to hear Dean's words. _Isn't Dad always missing? And always fine?_ Hadn't it been one of the constants of their childhood, Dad was gone for huge chunks - days, even weeks at a time? In Sam's estimation, Dad was always missing and Dean was always there. Well, until Stanford had entered the picture.

Sam listened as Dean detailed the case that Dad had been working. Dean was worried about Dad, and that wasn't like Dean at all. Dean worried over Sam ad nauseum, but John Winchester could take care of himself, and wipe out half a dozen supernaturals while doing it - and they both knew that. There was more here than a garden-variety hunt, and Sam started paying closer attention to what Dean was saying.

"It started happening more and more, so Dad went to go dig around. That was about three weeks ago. I hadn't heard from him since, which is bad enough." Dean leaned into the Impala's opened trunk and picked up a micro-cassette recorder from the depths of the weapons box. "Then I get this voicemail yesterday."

Dean clicked the recorder on and John Winchester's garbled voice said, "Dean… something is starting to happen…. I can feel it. I need to… what's going on. It may be what we've… looking for. Be very careful, Dean, we're all in danger."

Sam could feel his facial muscles tightening. No wonder Dean had come looking for him, after hearing that. _Dad said 'we're ALL in danger', not 'we're both in danger' and Dean hightailed it here, to check up on me…. _"You know there's EVP on there?"

Dean shot him a sideways glance. "Not bad, Sammy. Kind of like riding a bike, isn't it? All right, I slowed the message down and ran it through a Goldwave. Took out the hiss and this is what I got."

He hit the play button again and a woman's voice, drawn-out and almost hissing mourned, "I can never go home."

Sam shook his head slightly, echoing her words. "Never go home." He was loath to admit it, but the phrase struck a chord with him.

Dean shut the Impala's trunk and sat on it, seeming to track Sam's thoughts. "You know, in almost two years, I never bothered you, never asked you for a thing."

Sam glanced off to his right, suddenly caught up in the memory of Dean's last unexpected visit….

* * * * *

Sam jogged up the last flight of stairs to his third-floor studio apartment and halted at the door. He pushed back the hood of his cardinal red STANFORD sweatshirt with one hand while the other dug into his heather gray sweatpants for his keys. Stepping through the opened the door, he tensed, instantly alert, two-plus years of the safe life not enough to dull his senses and instincts. He entered and closed the door behind him softly. He wasn't alone; someone else was in the one-room apartment.

"Hey, Sammy!" The call came from the kitchen and Sam spotted a man's form through the pass-through cutout above the breakfast bar. The sound of the refrigerator door slamming shut was followed by the rapid appearance of his older brother, holding a bottle of beer. "You only have three beers in the fridge, what kind of welcome is that?"

"How about unexpected?" _Pure Dean. Shows up out of the blue and raids my fridge. But his timing could be better…._

"Aw, c'mon, it's Thanksgiving - where else would I be?"

Dean had a point there. Thanksgiving was his older brother's favorite holiday, one of the few pieces of normal life that Dean had whole-heartedly embraced. As long as the three of them were home and relatively in one piece, Dean was thankful. Sam's views of Thanksgiving had changed over the years, dampening his holiday spirit considerably. Sam knew Dean saw all they had to be thankful for, but he only saw everything they were missing - a mother, grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles. A whole extended family to share the holiday with; a reason to cook a twenty-pound turkey for hours on end and fill the dining room table with food of all kinds until it sagged under the sheer weight of it. That was what Thanksgiving should be, not three Winchesters and a turkey loaf with Stove Top Stuffing, like Sam's senior year in high school.

Dean had shown up at Stanford Sam's freshman year, and treated him to the Hilton's Thanksgiving Buffet, courtesy of somebody else's credit card, of course. But Dean had been a total no-show last year, with no real explanation. Sam just had to close his eyes to see Dean's year-old email. It had been brief: _Sammy, Something came up and I can't make it to Stanford. Happy Turkey Day! Dean. _Sam could read between the lines easily. Dad had told Dean they were going on a hunt, and Dean had just gone, not even mentioning that he'd had other plans for the holiday. _Dad said "Jump!" and Dean didn't even ask "How high?", he just jumped. Life in the Winchester world. _

Dean moved from the kitchen to the studio's main room. It was Sam's living room/dining room/bedroom/study/complete apartment, excluding the kitchen and miniscule bathroom. He sat down on the red futon, positioned a few feet in front of the bookcases along the back wall. Dean put his beer down on the cushioned coffee table that doubled as extra seating when needed. "Nice digs, man. A big step up from your dorm room."

"Two years of dorm living was enough for me," Sam admitted, relocating to his over-stuffed recliner, in the same red, black and white geometric fabric as the coffee table. "Even with a great roommate like Zach, I needed more space. I saw this place and I had to have it." There were two major features that had sold Sam on the studio apartment. The first was a floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcase that completely covered the back wall. The second was a large skylight centered in the sloped main room ceiling. Sam knew that his older brother wouldn't see the skylight as the tremendous plus that he thought it was.

Sure enough, Dean spoke his mind, after a long swig of beer. "I can see why you wanted the bookcases." Sam had filled almost all available shelving with textbooks, notebooks, paperbacks, folders and a few knickknacks. "But a skylight? That's just an extra, unprotected point of access. Don't worry, I re-salted it for you." Dean dug his free hand into his jeans pocket and pulled out a small Elmer's glue bottle. "One thousand and two uses." Dean's grin didn't reach his eyes, though.

Dean was giving him the benefit of the doubt. "Re-salted" indeed - Sam had never salted the skylight's frame in the first place, considering the wards he'd grown up with unnecessary in his life at Stanford. "I took an astronomy course last year. I needed a different perspective of the nighttime, wanted to think about more than the immediate twenty feet of darkness around me. It was awesome, dude. I learned a ton about stars, planets, pulsars, nebulae, and black holes. We had a weekly lab at Stanford's rooftop observatory - they have a killer telescope." Sam gestured up towards the skylight. "The stars are beautiful, even in the midst of the city. If I've had a bad day or need a break from night-time cramming, all I have to do is look up and enjoy."

"Sammy. I get it; normal people have skylights." Dean pocketed the Elmer's glue. "Just do me a favor and salt it every once in a while, huh?"

_Dean has plenty of real things to worry about; he doesn't need to worry unnecessarily about supernaturals coming through my skylight._ "Sure."

Sam knew he wasn't changing Dean's mind about the skylight, so he dropped the subject. "But that was last year. This year, I changed my major." He braced, waiting for the flurry of questions that talk about switching majors engendered from his Stanford buddies. However, Dean wasn't a student; he didn't get what a big step this was.

"To astronomy?" Dean asked, surprised.

"No. Pre-law. I want to be a lawyer."

"What? A shyster? Why?"

Sam's voice sharpened. "It's a challenging, legitimate profession. Lawyers make great money and most are pillars of their communities." _Besides, given the way you and Dad operate, a pro-Winchester lawyer will come in handy. _

"I talked with my guidance counselor. It'll take me an extra year to graduate, but she didn't see that as a problem. My scholarship only covers four years, but there are some scholarships specifically for upperclassmen, and she's helping me find and apply for them. If nothing else, I can take out a student loan for my last year."

"You've been planning this for awhile," Dean's eyes narrowed. "How come I'm just finding out about it now?"

"I haven't heard from you since the semester started." Unless it was something special, like Dean's birthday, Dean initiated all their contacts; Sam just hit 'reply' or answered his cell phone. Sam rationalized his behavior as not wanting to interrupt Dean in mid-hunt, being distracted by a ringtone could be a crucial or even fatal error in the Winchester line of work.

"I've been away." Dean avoided Sam's gaze as he put his beer down. "Right after Labor Day, Dad sent me to Pastor Jim's in Blue Earth."

"For three months?" Sam asked skeptically.

"Yeah, Dad wanted me to bone up on Latin and ancient textbooks." Dean half-laughed. "Since we lost our ace researcher, I handle all the research now."

"For three months?" Sam repeated. "Dad would never--" He broke off. _Dad wouldn't send Dean off to study for three months straight; he'd know it'd drive Dean stir-crazy. Worse, it'd make him stale as a hunter._ No, if Dean had been away for three months, it wasn't just for studying. _Pastor Jim is Blue Earth's chief EMT_, Sam suddenly remembered. The pastor tended to his flock in more ways than one. "So, what happened Labor Day Weekend?"

"Told you Sammy, I've been in Blue Earth--"

"No, you said Dad sent you there **after **Labor Day. Something happened on a hunt, didn't it?"

"Are you grilling me, Mr. LA Law?" Dean said, clearly annoyed.

"No, I don't need to," Sam said. "I can see it in your eyes."

"Aw, hell, Sammy," Dean sighed. "Dad and I were working a possession case. I - uh - dropped a few words from the incantation and got thrown into a bookcase. It fell over on me, and I broke my leg." Dean grimaced. "Why is it always bookcases, anyway?"

"So Dad packed you off to Pastor Jim to improve your Latin and let your leg heal." It was totally impossible to hunt successfully with a broken leg.

"Uh huh. I always thought that Pastor Jim was a strict teacher, but, man, that's nothing compared to him as a PT. Still, he got me and the leg back to one hundred percent, so Dad'll be happy when I meet him at Caleb's on Tuesday. We're gonna stock up on ammo and hit the road.

"So I've been kind of busy, lately. Besides, our schedules don't exactly mesh, these days."

"Our schedules don't mesh? Dean, our **lives **don't mesh!"

The telephone in Sam's kitchen interrupted the weighted silence following that remark.

"Gotta get that," Sam rose from the recliner. "Make yourself at home," he flung over his shoulder as he crossed into the kitchen.

Sam returned several minutes later, after a low-voiced conversation on the telephone. He noted that Dean had indeed made himself at home, by prowling through Sam's desktop. His older brother was seated on the futon, reading. Sam recognized the plastic binder and white letter paper as one of his term papers. He was pretty sure which one when Dean looked up, a less-than-happy expression on his face. "So," Dean said sourly. "'Heroic Tunnelvision: The Battle Against Evil Incarnate.' Something you wanna tell me, bro?"

"We had to write a psych paper dealing with a significant influence in our life. I needed to understand what I didn't want out of life."

"So you wrote a psych paper dissecting **me**, your crazoid brother?" Dean sounded angry, but Sam heard the hurt in his voice, too.

"Hey, no. The professor thinks that paper's about the protagonist from an obscure graphic novel. I haven't forgotten our Family Rule Number One - certainly haven't violated it," Sam said defensively. The rule was simple; their father had spelled it out in words of one syllable, years ago: We do what we do and we shut up about it.

"Yeah, whatever, dude." Dean almost let the matter drop, then tacked on, "So, what do you tell your college friends about your family?"

"As little as possible." Sam answered shortly.

"And if that's not enough?"

"If they're too persistent, I tell them I was raised by wolves." Sam shrugged. "They don't believe me, of course, but they sure do drop the subject."

"Raised by wolves, eh? Then you can't say anything when I'm gnawing on the drumsticks at dinner." Dean's smile failed to reach his eyes again. "Where d'you wanna go this time? That ritzy hotel put on a pretty decent spread before."

_Trust Dean to remember all the details about our last Thanksgiving dinner together. But then, it's Thanksgiving - Dean could probably recite every holiday meal he's had for the past two decades. _

"Dean," Sam ran a hand through his hair, nervous. Dean wasn't going to like this one bit. "I can't go to dinner with you, I'm sorry. When I didn't hear from you, I made other arrangements for this year."

"You what?"Dean rose to his feet. "Sam, we always spend Thanksgiving together." He paced over to the breakfast bar, and then turned around. "What other plans have you made?"

"Zach and his sister Becca invited me to their family Thanksgiving at their aunt and uncle's house in San Luis Obispo. They're picking me up in half an hour."

"Well, you can just call them and cancel it, say you can't come after all." Dean was using his no-nonsense tone, sounding remarkably similar to Dad.

"No, I can't. I'm not going to cancel at the last minute." _I know what that feels like. _"But you could come, too. Becca told me her aunt always cooks for an army, there'd be plenty of food."

"And what would I say to these nice, normal friends of yours? We have nothing in common."

_You have me, _Sam thought, but couldn't say it, knowing Dean would roll his eyes and make some cutting remark about chick flick moments.

"Besides, you don't invite extra relatives to someone else's party, didn't I teach you any manners?"

Sam ignored the jibe. "Zach and Becca are two of my closest friends - and you know what they say about friends." Sam reconsidered; he couldn't remember Dean having any close friends in school. His tone softened, "Well, maybe you don't. Friends are the family that you choose for yourself."

"You know what they say about family," Dean countered. "It's where, if you have to go there, they have to take you in."

_Dean got that wrong, _Sam thought. _That quote was about home, not family. _But then the two had always been interchangeable in Dean's world. Not so with Sam's. "Tell that to Dad," he said, bitterly, surprising himself at how much bitterness still remained after more than two years.

"I'm not Dad, Sammy."

"Are you so sure about that?" Sam snapped back, letting his temper get the better of him.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean's eyes widened and he took a step forward, closer to Sam.

"'Sammy.' I prefer 'Sam' - and you know it. No one's called me Sammy in years, except you and Dad."

"Oh for God's sake, are we going to argue semantics now?"

"Not semantics - mindset. You still see me as Sammy, your younger brother who needs to be protected and watched over."

"You'll always be my younger brother," Dean said flatly. "Stanford won't change that."

"Admit it; you think my going to college is just a phase. At the back of your mind, you think I'll come home after I graduate and join you. Well, that isn't going to happen, Dean. I'm through with hunting, forever. I thought you understood that."

"I do. You've thrown it in my face enough." Dean said tightly.

"Dean, I can't live your life. I have to live my own life, do what's right for me. And if you can't accept that, **really** accept it," Sam drew a breath, "then we have nothing else to say to each other."

"And where, in your perfect, normal little world, is there room for me?"

Sam took a step back, startled. "You chose Dad's life a long time ago."

"No, Sammy. **You** chose, I'm just trying to deal."

Dean stared at Sam for a few long seconds, then abruptly turned and stalked across the room to the door. He clicked it open, then paused, speaking to the door. "You're gonna make a great lawyer someday, Sam. You've got a hell of a way with words." Then he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him.

Sam couldn't take his eyes off the closed door, running the scene with Dean through his head again and again. _What'd I just tell Dean a few minutes ago? 'I can see it in your eyes.' But just now, Dean looked at me like I was a total stranger; I couldn't read anything in his eyes. How did things go south so fast?_ _Did I really just kick my brother out of my life?_ He heard footsteps, then a knock on the door and he crossed the room, throwing the door open hurriedly. "Hah! I knew you couldn't stay--" he broke off. Becca stood on the porch, not Dean.

"Sam? Are you ready to go?"

* * * * *

Sam remembered that Thanksgiving; it had been miserable, the start of Dean's absence from his life. _Now, Dean's back and he wants, __**needs **__my help. Is that too much for a brother to ask? _He glanced back at Dean and said, "All right, I'll go. I'll help you find him."


End file.
